Public Relations

Chapter 18: Mia

S: We need to talk soon.

The text is from the day of the podcast - how much time has even passed since then? 

I swipe out of my messaging app and open Twitter. The clip of Brett saying he's in love with a girl is trending under his name right now. 

"Moron," I mutter.

I'm sitting at my kitchen table, the sun slanting in through the blinds to my left. I've only woken up a handful of minutes ago, the energy still slowly reaching the tips of my fingers and toes. A mug of coffee sits in front of me, steam curling from the top of it. I stir my spoon through it and sigh as the heat warms my freezing hands.

There's something about Sean that I'm just not ready to face just yet. I can't quite put my finger on it, either. It's not romantic - nothing about the impending breakup of sorts that is surely coming ahead of his official move. It's almost a fear or an envy, that he is chasing his rewarding, inspiring dreams and succeeding, while I'm doing damage control for a man in his mid-twenties who gets drunk like it's his senior prom.

"This is so stupid," I say to myself.

It could be as simple as walking across the hall to Sean's apartment and sitting down with him for a mature discussion. It could be that simple if I'd let it be.

But I won't, because that's not the kind of person I am.

Instead, I spend a solid hour on my laptop, scouring various social media sites to see the impact of Brett's drunken confession. The response is neutral - most speculation is that it's about Avalon, although the photos of the two of us did resurface with a few fans. It's not headline news and no one really cares.

Except, of course, me. Because I'm no fucking idiot.

Unless Brett is the slimiest, skankiest man alive and happens to have a full roster of women beyond me, I have to assume he's talking about me. We kissed literally that same morning - he'd have to be the crown prince of assholes to be speaking about another woman. It could've been a ploy for attention, which is possible but unlikely.

I let this thought brew in the back of my mind as I do my research, and by the time I've logged out of my Brett Bullshit, I've reached the mentality that it's not my problem if he thinks he loves me, only if he announces it to a livestream with tens of thousands of live viewers and over one million replays.

The afternoon replaces the morning, and I'm suspiciously caught up on my work. Emails are answered, deadlines are met as far as two weeks out, and I even have a glowing note of appreciation from a different influencer's manager thanking me for the work I did for her client.

Just as I'm shutting my laptop, my phone rings.

Tony.

I blink at the phone, wondering what the hell Brett's manager wants from me right now. I slide my finger across the screen to answer it, then promptly put it on speaker and hold it in front of me like a mic. My legs are tucked up to my chest, curled up into a tiny ball at my kitchen table.

"Hello?" I ask, uncertain.

"Mia? What does your weekend look like?"

* * *

I'm at the airport before the sun has even set, anger making its home deep in the pit of my stomach.

Tony informed me that Brett had made arrangements to film a YouTube video and podcast with one of his friends in New York City, another influencer with millions of followers spanning all platforms. It's a good opportunity, especially to defer some of the attention on him to something a bit more jovial. Except no one trusts Brett to be on his own right now. Tony begged me to join, to be in the room during the filming, to make sure nothing dumb is said since he's got such a good history of that now.